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'' You have suffered a lot, Naz. Think about it, we are in no hurry. If you say, the boy can bring you some book or magazine to read?"
"I don't want anything."
"Don't even think about running away. You don't know the streets of Karachi, and we know every single brick of this city. I'm not threatening you, Naz! Even if you sit inside any police station, we will sniff you out and in a moment, drag you back.…"
Just then, the boy came with tea. Munna looked at the cakes on the tray, picked one up, sniffed it, and barked harshly:
"You bastard! Didn't I see this cake somewhere before? Smell it, Naz! It looks at least ten days old. Take it back! And tell that son of a bitch, if he ever sends such things again, he won't get a single paisa.… Now run! Bring fresh cakes!"
As the boy was leaving, Munna called after him:
"And listen! There's a bookstall in front of the hotel, right? Bring ten or twelve magazines from there. I'll pay the money."
Munna went into the other room. Naz felt a strange relief—this same monster Munna, who along with Tipu and Badal had tortured her body in countless ways, was now catering to her whims. A twisted pride swelled inside her. Yet she did not realize that they were no longer just controlling her body—they were beginning to seize her mind and her thoughts.
Tea came, and Naz drank it. In front of her lay a heap of magazines. The night wore on. Jeeda did not come. The night passed. The day passed. Naz remained in the same room—reading film magazines, sleeping, waking, dreaming, sometimes half-asleep, sometimes half-awake.
Munna, Tipu, and Badal kept coming in at intervals, in their usual dramatic and business-like tones, coaxing her to turn her youth and beauty into money. The boy kept busy attending to her. Naz kept asking about Jeeda, kept waiting for him, pacing the room restlessly.
Ten days and ten nights passed. In those days, Naz finished all the magazines Munna had brought. Most were film magazines, but three or four were unrelated to cinema—still, every story was like a living film. Crime, detective chases, fights, romances—all painted in such vivid words that every scene unfolded on the screen of her mind.
In those stories, Naz saw herself. She saw her greedy, show-off brothers. She read tales that mirrored her own sufferings. She saw the world of cinema and, surprisingly, found nothing objectionable in it. To her, it seemed beautiful. Once, in Jeeda's dungeon, she had come to despise the film world. But now, through these film magazines, that hatred was turning into fascination.
In the non-film magazines, crime and sin, love and lust, were described in such raw and intoxicating words that the weight of guilt lifted from her conscience. The disgust she had felt toward her own body vanished. The fear she once held of Jeeda, Munna, Tipu, and Badal also faded. She began to see crime as something attractive, and even criminals as admirable. Jeeda, because of his relatively kind behavior, had already begun to appeal to her. Now, she longed impatiently for his return.
Munna had brought those magazines thinking only that—since she was educated—they would keep her entertained and distract her from thoughts of escape. He himself was illiterate. He had never heard of terms like "brainwashing." He didn't know there could be ways, other than torture, to bend someone to your path. But those magazines, their pictures and stories, were brainwashing Naz without Munna even realizing it. Both he and Naz were unaware that these very magazines were luring boys and girls from "respectable" families into the underground world of crime and sin—if not in reality, then at least in imagination, where they became the very characters of those immoral and titillating tales.
Naz's regret and sense of shame disappeared.
On the eleventh night, halfway through, Naz woke up. Jeeda had opened the door quietly, but stumbled against something in the dark, and the noise woke her.
"Who's there?"
"You're awake?"
Recognizing Jeeda's voice, Naz sat up.
"You've come?"
"I'll sleep in the other room," Jeeda said, stepping forward in the dark. "You didn't have any trouble, did you?"
"Turn on the light," Naz said casually.
The room glowed with a matchstick, then the lantern was lit.
Naz looked at Jeeda and doubted for a moment if it was really him. His beard had grown wild, his eyes seemed sleepless for nights, his shirt was torn at the back, his hair was long and dusty, his face marked with fatigue. Even his voice carried weariness.
Naz stood up. "Sleep here. I'll lie on the floor. Tell me, how did these days pass?"
"No," Jeeda yawned, "my bedding is in the other room. You sleep here. It was fine."
"Alright, sleep now." Jeeda started to leave for the other room.
Naz stopped him.
"Sleep here… on the cot. I'll lie on the floor."
Jeeda looked at her, then lifted her in his arms and laid her gently on the cot.
Naz was no stranger to the pleasure of a man's body, but being lifted like that by Jeeda gave her a strange comfort—something she had never felt from the well-dressed, polished men of "respectable" society. Jeeda hadn't bathed in ten or twelve days. His body reeked of sweat, of hashish and liquor. He was the very embodiment of stench.
Yet when Naz leaned close, she detected another scent—the smell of human blood. It was the blood of a victim, still clinging to the dagger that Jeeda carried in his trouser pocket.
The light went out. In the darkness, Naz heard Jeeda's footsteps, then the rustle as he lay down on the bedding spread on the floor. She wanted to talk to him, but wondered—what should she say?
"Where were you all these days?" she finally asked.
No reply.
"Asleep already?"
Silence.
"Jeeda?"
But he had fallen into deep sleep. His body and mind, like a trained beast, obeyed his command—lie down and sleep. When awake, he could go without sleep for nights on end. He was free from anxieties and worries. He had no wife, no children to send to school, no concerns of bribery or recommendations, no thought of how to pay a doctor if a child fell sick. He was a robber—he had no fear of being robbed. He was a pickpocket—he had no fear of losing his own wallet. He was an outlaw—he feared no police. His mind was free, so sleep was his slave. If he had been a respectable man of society, worries and troubles would have stolen his sleep away.
Naz's thoughts drifted in the dark. Why did she not fear this dangerous thug? She wanted to build a wall between them, but inside her a weakness was growing—an urge that was pushing her helplessly toward him. Some force was telling her that Jeeda would take her out of this cave and back home.
Lost in thought, Naz too fell asleep. The night slipped away.
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To be continue...